The Glorious Cause

by Jeff Shaara

  The army was back in whatever cover they could find, mostly in patches of woods, and he had relaxed the usual discipline, allowing the men to gather branches and moss, any kind of protection against the weather. When the march out of Fort Lee had clearly become a pursuit, he had ordered the army to leave their tents behind, the men already encumbered by the weight of their packs and muskets. Once the weather changed for the worse, he had regretted the order. But their means of making a dry camp was well behind them now, and they would need their rest. They had endured the same march as Washington, and the toll was etched on their faces. Even as they gathered up the rebel stragglers, his own men were dropping in place, staggering through muddy roads in blind fatigue. There is some blessing in this delay after all. And still, right there, across this river, Washington’s army is waiting.

  The wind howled past him, and he turned the horse, cursed the winter, knew it would only get worse in the weeks ahead. He shivered, pulled again at the coat, and his staff was up close to him now, knew without him saying anything that he had enough of this for today. He began to move the horse, saw another rider coming from the east, the man led by a jager. He recognized the man with dread, one of Howe’s aides.

  The man was shivering, retrieved a packet from his saddle, said, “General Cornwallis, I am pleased to find you, sir.” Cornwallis said nothing, was in no mood for pleasant chat. “General Howe offers his congratulations on the extraordinary progress of your march, and advises you that the general himself will be joining you here at Brunswick.”

  The dread had now turned ice-cold, and Cornwallis said, “Here? General Howe is coming here?”

  “Oh, quite, sir. The general has ordered you to remain at post here until he arrives. He is quite eager to accompany you on the chase, sir.”

  “When might the general arrive?”

  “Oh, um, any day now, sir.”

  Cornwallis could see a bland pleasantness on the man’s face, oblivious to the significance of his message. Cornwallis moved the horse again, felt another blast of wind, left the man sitting alone, moved toward a long row of small houses. So, we shall sit tight and wait for General Howe. And he will arrive any day now.

  DECEMBER 7, 1776

  It took Howe nearly a week to fight the elements and his own habit of making a comfortable camp at every stop along the way. When he had finally reached Brunswick, Cornwallis’ engineers had finished their work, and the army was ready to cross the Raritan. But Washington’s army was no longer anywhere to be seen.

  With Howe now commanding the column, the pursuit began again. Every day brought more rebel prisoners, and once the weather dried out, and the roads hardened, Cornwallis had seen for himself the dark streaks and stains on the road, the blood from the bare feet of Washington’s men.

  Cornwallis could make no excuses, could not avoid riding alongside his superior, that sort of decorum so very important to Howe. Around them, the army had made good time, Howe not holding them back, beyond the luxury of allowing the men to sleep until well after daylight. It was frustrating to Cornwallis, an annoying lapse of efficiency, but he would not make any objection to Howe, knew the morale of his men had to be kept high. They were moving farther and farther inland, away from the security of their supply base, and away from any significant help should they suddenly find themselves in a fight.

  They reached the outskirts of Princeton, and Cornwallis could see the jagers swarming through the college, helmeted soldiers appearing in the windows of the large building, Nassau Hall. There had been no trouble, no snipers, nothing at all to cause alarm. The college was nearly empty, ghostlike. Cornwallis knew that the college president, John Witherspoon, was an outspoken rebel, would respond to the British advance by closing the college, sending the young men scurrying through the countryside, ridiculous threats of grave consequences should they stay in the town.

  Most of the townspeople had left as well, but in the streets he could see the curious emerging. There were more stragglers, of course, those who would collapse into the small comforts of the town. Already his advance patrols were rounding them up.

  The jagers were out in front again, and the reports kept coming to him in a steady stream. Washington’s army could not be far ahead. The sound of axes was echoing through the woods, the rebels cutting trees, dropping them across the road just in front of the army’s progress, a feeble attempt to hold Howe back.

  They rode past a small tavern, and Cornwallis saw a British flag in the window, thought, How long has that been there? Likely not while Mr. Washington was in the area. I wonder if that fellow is a true loyalist, or just someone with an instinct for the pragmatic.

  Howe had issued a proclamation, calling for loyal subjects to the king to step forward, a reassuring statement that those citizens out here, who had been so far from the protection of British forces, were now safe, and could state their loyalty without fear. In return, they would receive a certificate signed by Howe, guaranteeing them protection from any harassment from the British troops. The response had been encouraging, though not overwhelming, but reports had already begun to come into camp from irate Tories, protesting that their farms, and occasionally their daughters, were being abused by the Hessians, who showed no understanding at all of Howe’s reassuring words. But Howe continued to believe it was a major step in bringing the countryside back into the fold. Cornwallis understood now: To Howe, this was the most important part of the entire mission.

  As they moved farther into the town, more of the citizens came out into the road. He glanced at Howe, saw a silent pride on the man’s soft face. He could see that Howe shared none of his own frustration, seemed unconcerned that Washington was staying just far enough in front of them to avoid a fight. Howe was waving now, and Cornwallis saw a group of women emerging from a small house, flowers in their hands. An old man appeared, bent and gray, held a British flag, and Cornwallis had the sudden sense of being in a parade. It brought back memories of Europe, the celebration of war, as though some kind of grand spectacle justified any of the horror.

  Howe was reacting to the attention with a broad smile, and Cornwallis focused ahead, listened for the sounds of the army, any sign that the jagers had actually caught up to Washington’s main body. Howe was waving again, responding to a small group of cheering boys, said, “Marvelous. It’s like coming home. This truly is England, all of it. Every house, every farm, every town.”

  Cornwallis didn’t know if Howe expected him to respond, thought, Of course, in the end, it’s not about armies, or this chase of a beaten enemy. Howe was enjoying the countryside, appraising it in ways Cornwallis had never understood until now. It was the European way, conquer your enemy by conquering his land, measure your victory by acreage. We are occupying their property, their towns are falling under our command. This is not about catching Washington, or defeating his army. Howe’s proclamation to the loyalists was all about pacification, reassuring the people that we will protect them from the rabble, reassuring them that their king has returned to take control. There is logic to it, I suppose. The rebels claim their power comes from the people, that it is the people who give legitimacy to their congress. Take that away, and there is no revolution at all.

  Up ahead, he heard more muskets, could hear a musket ball whistle by overhead. Howe was waving still, a flirtation with a young girl, and Cornwallis thought, He didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear any of it.

  DECEMBER 8, 1776

  There had been musket fire for most of the day, scattered and brief, and very few stragglers had appeared. He knew that Trenton was very close, the jagers pushing and probing forward, testing the resistance that Washington might have placed in their path. There had not been any kind of real engagement, mostly marksmen, rebels who hid themselves close to the wrecks of small bridges, more of the annoying obstacles to slow the column. The jagers would pursue, a brief fruitless chase, but the rebels knew the land. Each time the game was played out, the main column would be forced to halt, and after a time, Cornwal
lis would begin the cumbersome task of putting the army in motion again.

  Howe had stayed behind, rising very late, had been gracious enough to allow Cornwallis and the army to begin the march without him. It was a blessed relief, and Cornwallis had the troops up and on the road quickly. Cornwallis had put a spark of energy in his orders, knowing that Washington had increased the space between them slightly. If he could inspire the men to a day or two of hard marching, they might still catch the main rebel column. But the army was encumbered by the weight of its packs and the fatigue in its legs, and the rebels were close to the one place that might finally offer them another escape, this time into Pennsylvania. Beyond Trenton was the Delaware River, and a wide river could mean opportunity for either side. If Washington’s troops could be caught on the near shore of the river, unable to find a means across, their despair and panic would surely result in a rapid surrender, and Howe would have a glorious victory. But if the rebels crossed the river . . .

  He would not focus on that, knew that Pennsylvania would allow Washington to move in many directions, his meager force vanishing into the vast farmlands. It is winter, after all, and there can be no long marches in winter. The weather had continued to change, from chilly and dry to the icy misery of blinding storms. He tried to imagine the scene in the rebel camp, each day closer to bloody disaster or some kind of salvation. Washington knows his situation, of course. The man is no fool. He has a dwindling army of shopkeepers and farmers, and he cannot stand up to us at all, not now, not after so much of his strength has simply fallen away. He needs the river, and he needs us to dawdle and delay. Cornwallis turned in the saddle, looked back down the moving column, did not see Howe. He felt relief, looked again to the front, saw a church steeple above a thicket of trees, then more buildings, small houses, shops. They had reached Trenton.

  The troops raced ahead of him, and he waved them forward with the sword, but there were few sounds, scattered pops, the sudden burst from one cannon. But it was not a fight, there were no lines of rebels waiting for them, the cannon his own, a futile shot across the river.

  He reined in the horse, looked across from a high bluff, could see rebels in motion, pulling boats up the far bank. The shoreline was a solid mass of boats, all shapes and sizes, some crude and unfinished, fishing vessels and simple rafts. But the boats were empty, their human cargo already gone. His men were firing across the river, at the last of Washington’s rear guard, but there was little return fire. He ignored the pleas from his staff to back away, knew there was no danger. No, it could not have been more perfect. We gave them exactly what they required, exactly the amount of time they would need to safely cross the river. General Howe will have his critics again, his enemies in London claiming he delayed with purpose, leniency to the rebels. They will not know how it is to be out here, marching this army through eighty miles of bad roads and dismal weather.

  He felt himself sagging in the saddle, drained by the long days of this ridiculous pursuit, this absurd chase through land that meant nothing to anyone but General Howe. The last of the rebels were moving off, disappearing into the trees, while around him, his men continued to form solid lines along the edge of the river. Officers were beginning to gather, and he heard the curses of the sergeants, could hear Hessian troops shouting something across the river, their own curses. There was no shooting, the targets far away, the enemy beyond even his own imagination. The word rolled through his brain, Pennsylvania, his mind a fog of weariness and anger. He felt paralyzed, could not even see the river, stared at nothing, swallowed up by the great wide hole in his mind, the abyss, where that man and that ridiculous army had disappeared, had escaped again.

  DECEMBER 14, 1776

  They had stayed in Trenton for several days, the army settling into their camps in a dull haze of frustration. He had sent scouts out along the river, and the reports had not surprised him at all. There were no boats to be found, none, of any shape or kind. Washington had been very thorough. For many miles in both directions, the rebels had pulled every craft that could float to the west side of the Delaware River.

  He was pacing the shoreline, staring at muddy water, had made this his routine now, walking out every day, while Howe kept to his lavish and comfortable headquarters. But Cornwallis did not dwell on the mud and the stark skeletons of trees, the dreariness of winter in New Jersey. His mind was on Jemima, imagining the sight of her waiting on the wharf, standing alone, as though he was the only passenger on the ship, just husband and wife, coming together after the torment of the months of separation. He thought of his walk down the plank, maintaining his decorum, teasing her, seeming to search the wharf for someone else, all the while watching her, until finally she scolded him, Charles! Pay attention! It was their private argument, and there was no hostility to it, just the tease, when his mind would drift away to some other place, or the writing of some letter that was not for her. Charles! What of me? And he would pretend to go on with his work, wait for her to move closer, trying to distract him, and he would suddenly drop the pen, push the papers away, wrap his arms around her thin frame, bathe himself in her perfume.

  Even when the children came, they had their privacy, and neither of them would allow parenthood to prevent their playfulness. He thought of her laughter, like soft music, her beautiful voice, those eyes, that beautiful face.

  The image faded, his thoughts jolted by the sounds of the horse, the sight of his aide. He knew that Howe expected him for lunch, a tradition now, and Cornwallis felt a dull sickness in his stomach, could not think of food. His aide dismounted, said nothing, the message known to both of them already. Cornwallis could see the man’s anguish, said, “Yes, yes, Colonel, do not be so troubled. I’m coming. I do not wish to keep General Howe waiting.” The man seemed relieved, and Cornwallis moved past him, climbed on the horse, slapped the reins. The streets were crowded with Hessians, formations of sharp blue, polished helmets in long straight rows. They stepped aside with precision, their officer stiffly at attention as he passed, and he nodded to the man, habit now.

  As he approached Howe’s headquarters, he could not avoid looking out toward a wide field, out behind a row of houses. He had seen it first from the window of Howe’s headquarters, something Howe himself had not noticed. Cornwallis had pointed it out, and Howe had dismissed his suggestion with a brief shrug of his thick shoulders, and so Cornwallis would not mention it again. But each time he rode by the field, he stared out at this place, the sawmill, row upon row of cut timbers, a vast field of the raw materials they could have used to build boats.

  He rode up slowly to Howe’s headquarters, stepped down heavily off the horse, adjusted his coat over the discomfort in his stomach. There was music coming from inside, some kind of odd Hessian horn, the irregular beats of a large drum. A guard held the door open for him, and he stepped inside, was jolted by the smell, something hard and pungent. The table was piled with large platters of fat tubes, some gray, some red, some seemingly no color at all. The men saw him now, calls of good cheer, some in broken English, and he stepped forward, put on his best effort at a smile.

  Howe was at the head of the table, said aloud, “Welcome, General! We have a surprise today! Colonel Rall has insisted that his camp prepare our lunch. It seems that we are in a part of the colonies where some of his people have settled.”

  Rall stood now, an older, frail man, with a stiff, unsmiling formality, and Cornwallis said, “Well, Colonel, thank you for your kindness.”

  Rall looked to the side, an aide whispering to him, and Cornwallis thought, Of course, the good colonel speaks no English at all. He was familiar with Rall’s aide, a friendly young lieutenant named Piel. Piel motioned to a chair, said, “General, if you please. We have procured some of the finest luxuries of our own country from the farms around Trenton. It has given our soldiers much joy. Please.”

  Piel was still pointing to the chair, and Cornwallis sat, the smell numbing him. He stared at the massive platters, could not help the thought: It
appears to be one very large intestine. He still had the smile, felt his jaw stiffening, saw Howe now stabbing at a fat sausage, the juice spraying the table. Cornwallis scanned the rest of the table, saw no vegetables, nothing to delay the inevitable, and he reached out with a fork, carefully stabbed a sausage of his own. The Hessians had waited for him, and now there was a surge of forks, men heaping the plump links on their plates.

  He could see Howe thoroughly enjoying himself, and Howe said, “Excellent, when you acquire the taste. Enjoy, General.”

  Cornwallis poked and prodded, knew he was being watched, cut a small sliver off the end, brought it to his mouth. Howe said, “General, we have been discussing the winter quarters. I believe it is best to have the Hessians remain here. We will establish outposts back through New Jersey, generally on the same route of our march, Princeton, Brunswick, and so forth.”

  Cornwallis did not taste the meat in his mouth, stared at Howe, who frowned, said, “Is there a problem, General? Dinner not to your liking?”

  He swallowed the meat, said, “No, sir, the meal is fine. Winter quarters? Are we not to pursue the enemy?”

  Howe laughed, said, “Pursue whom? Where? Really now, General. In winter, one makes winter quarters. You are well aware there is no purpose served by attempting any march through winter conditions. The conditions here are far too severe for us to take the field. We currently occupy a string of towns that will provide us adequate shelter and a friendly environment. It would be foolish to move farther into unfamiliar terrain. I have decided to place Colonel Rall in command here, with Colonel von Donop down the river in Bordentown. General Grant will assume command at Brunswick, and you . . .” Howe paused, seemed to inflate, a knowing smile. “You, General, may make plans for a visit home. I believe that sort of thing is in order. You may accompany me to New York, and make preparations for a crossing.”